


Of Golden Sons and Bastards

by stargategeek



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Bae being a sassy little manwhore, Dark Comedy?, Depraved, Filth, Georgian Period, Manipulation, Multi, court intrigue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 20:24:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18080294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargategeek/pseuds/stargategeek
Summary: “Who do you think you are?”The man finally looked her square in the eye, his grey green pupils sparkling with amusement. “I am Lord Baelish, Lord of the Fingers, High Secretary of State, Keeper of the Keys, and the Queen’s favourite.”Georgian Period AU. Inspired by the film The Favourite.





	Of Golden Sons and Bastards

~•~  
I  
AND  
WHAT CUTE  
FANGS  
YOU HAVE  
~•~

A pair of fat black horseflies circled her head like a pair of vulturous buzzards. Swatting at them did little to dissuade them, in fact, it encouraged them to buzz all the more loudly.

 _What_ _kind_ _of_ _creature is this_? _A little street urchin_? _What_ _filth_ , _look_ _at_ _her_ _dress_.

A tableaux of men stood arranged around an assortment of baroque settees, and what looked like some sort of game spread out on the floor before them. Eight of them, that she could see; all of them in their wigs, with long handled pipes in one hand and half-drunk glasses of sherry in the other. Lords.

She set her jaw straight. One of the hundreds of thousands of indignities she had to suffer. Don’t be so sure of yourself, she thought bitterly to them all, I was once one of you.

“Ahem.”

She curtsied, her eyes averted to the ground to hopefully hide the burning red crawling up her cheeks.

“Who the fuck are you?” said one of the men standing closest to her, at the end of the settee. His wig was tinged pink, and was over-powdered as evidenced by the streaks of white collecting on his purple brocade shoulders.

“Smells like a pig,” muttered another one, in blue, with a blonde wig that was shorter and more loosely curled than the others.

“Hush.” And the men fell silent. “Come closer girl.”

Among the men there was one, more distinct than the others, more relaxed - the one who had hushed them. Sprawled across the center settee, one knee up revealing the stark white of his stockings while the other leg draped long over the arm rest. He sat dramatically posed as if for a painting, resting the hand holding his smoking pipe against his upturned knee, while the other hand glittered in the light with its many, many bejeweled rings. Unlike the others, his face was more finely painted and powdered, and the lush black curls of his wig stood out among the rest who ranged anywhere from auburn to pink to white.

“You wish to seek an audience with Queen Lysa of Arryn, so I’m told,” he spoke. His voice was different than what she expected. Lighter in a way - lacking the thick brogue of a northern Lord, or the salty harsh accent of an Ironborn - but also the smoothness and lilt of the south. It was somewhere in between them all.

“I have a letter,” she held out the slightly crumpled envelope in her hand with its unbroken wolf’s head seal.

“Do you normally dress in muddy clothes, or is it merely for her Grace?” His mouth was mocking her, but his eyes did not. Sansa’s eyes narrowed, a ripple of her breeding coursing through her.

“I fell,” she said through tight lips.

The corner of his mouth lifted in an amused little smile.

“And what business could you possibly have with the Queen of Arryn?”

Sansa set her jaw, mulling her words over carefully. “I ask for no charity. I’m willing to work. If I could see Her Grace, I have relations...”

“Hah!” barked one of the men standing behind the settee. An older man, whose wig was far too auburn for his complexion. “And my arsehole gave birth to King Joffrey.”

A ripple of snickers echoed around the solar. The man in the center lifted his hand to still their tongues once again.

Sansa straightened her neck, her back going rigid to hold her as high as possibly - if only to save her a little dignity.

The man unfurled his legs and set them on the floor. From the man to his right he retrieved a decorative walking stick made of dark wood and onyx, with the head in the shape of a mockingbird. As he stood there was a particular gleam in his eyes. A bloom of recognition.

“What is your name, sweetling?”

The hair at the back of her neck bristled. She deplored pet names.

“My name is Sansa. Sansa Stark.”

All the men, who had been standing stoic and silent, broke and gasped. It cannot be.

Her eyes hardened, staring her inquisitor dead in the eye, daring him to disbelieve her. Mud or no, no common girl could stare down the Queen’s highest advisor if she hadn’t a drop of nobility in her blood.

He leant back on his cane, and eyed her intently. His mouth fell into a thoughtful moue, as though he were deciding to hear her out or just to throw her on her arse back outside in the mud anyways.

Then he laughed. A sudden high bark. Sansa started. The man laughed so hard he nearly doubled over his cane. The men around him quickly joined him in a gale of uproarious laughter. All but one, standing slightly apart from the group, pudgy with a round face and a dusty white wig. He did not laugh and jeer like the others, but instead looked at her with something akin to pity. Though he made no move to help her. _What_ _a_ _man_.

The mocking man in black waved his hand again and the laughter died down to a low titter. “And we are supposed to just believe you are who you claim?”

She once again held up the letter. “My father’s seal.”

He leered at the envelope in her hand with vague disinterest.

She reached into her hand bag and pulled out a small signet ring. “This belonged to my grandfather Lord Tully. It bears his insignia.”

“Stolen from the ruins of Winterfell no doubt.” He tapped the cane on the hardwood floor with increasing impatience. “We require absolute proof.”

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek, it would do her no good to lose her temper. She had hoped she would not have to resort to this. All throughout Westeros her families lineage was known high and low, and word of the last Stark child wandering aimlessly around was sure to draw attention. She had taken great pains to hide her identity until she could grant an audience with the Queen of Arryn.

The bonnet, expertly secured to her head was affixed in such a way that her hair was completely hidden, and a small bottle of brown dye did much to hide the red of her eyebrows and the back of her neck where the bonnet couldn’t quite reach.

As soon as she undid the bonnet, waves of vibrant red hair came tumbling down her head.

The room fell deadly silent.

The girl may have been filthy - but the hair was unmistakable.

The smug look on the man in black’s face dropped imperceptively. Twisted into an unreadable expression, somewhere between shock and that glimmer of recognition she had noticed earlier.

“Out,” he said firmly, not breaking his eyes from her. “Everyone out.”

The men, all struck dumb by the shock of red waves, looked amongst each other in confusion, muttering words to one another and not moving an inch.

The look in the man’s eyes turned viciously dark, and the vein at his temple began to pop blue against the white face cream and powder. “GET OUT!!” He slammed the butt of his cane hard against the floor, causing all of the men behind him to scatter out the room like chickens. The only one who lingered was the short round one; his face shifted from pity to interest.

Once the room was empty save for the two of them, he stepped forward and held his hand out. “Now, your letter.” His voice was once again calm and controlled.

She handed him the envelope for his inspection. He turned it over in his ringed hands and examined the wolf’s head seal. With a sharp flick of his hand he broke it.

“Hey!” Sansa lunged forward, stilled by his hand lifting to halt her. “That’s not meant for you!” she hissed.

“You’ve never met your Aunt Lysa, have you sweetling?”

Again, that name. Sansa gritted her teeth and scowled. “No.”

“The Queen rarely if ever reads her letters unless they have been examined by me first. You do still wish an audience don’t you?”

Sansa steeled her face. “Yes.”

He clicked is tongue in that mocking way of his. He unfolded the letter and quickly perused its contents, walking in a slow circle around her. His cane tapped against the floor with every second step. The repercussion reverberated through her bones like a Chinese water torture - worsening with each blow.

Once done he stopped in front of her again and folded up the letter without a word.

“So,” she sneered. “Do you believe me no-“

His hand shot out and pinched her both sides of her jaw, cutting off her words. Her hands flew up to the offending appendage and pulled at the fine black velvet. He held strong against her struggles, despite the squeals of alarm, and her attempts to shake him off. With his other hand - the letter tucked safely under his arm - he swiped his thumb over her stained eyebrows, revealing the natural red underneath.

His impassive face broke with a surreptitious grin and he released her. As his hand pulled away she noticed the remnants of brown on his thumb.

“Clever child,” he murmured, swiping the dye between his fingers and bringing them to his nose to smell. “Perhaps you are the lost little wolf.” His hand lifted to tuck a stray lock of her red hair behind her ear. Out of instinct she snapped her teeth at him, causing him to sharply retract his hand. “Oh,” his eyebrow quirked up, amused. “And what cute fangs you have too.”

The man waltzed over to the far end of the solar, where a large cherry wood desk sat before an entire wall filled floor to ceiling with books. From somewhere between his frilly coattails he pulled out a gold chain of keys, choosing the littlest one and unlocked a drawer within his desk, securing her letter inside.

“Do I get my audience now?” she hissed, her dignity having about has much as it could take.

“No,” he said simply. An ornate handbell sat on the corner of his desk, he ran it three times. “Not in your state. You smell of manure.”

“I have nothing else to change into.”

He picked up her fallen bonnet and tossed it at her.

“Put that back on. Don’t let anyone else in this castle see that hair.”

“Why?”

A young chambermaid appeared at her side as if out of thin air.

“Ah, excellent. Have this young woman escorted to my personal chambers.”

Sansa flushed scarlet. “Absolutely not!” She lurched away from the maid in horror.

“Oh don’t be so dramatic. I will not be joining you.”

Horror and confusion muddled her brain. Why else would a man bring her to his private apartments.

“I will have a dress sent up. Take that thing...whatever she’s wearing and burn it.”

Now Sansa was angry. “You can’t just...”

“Hush,” he pressed a finger to her lips. “You want to see the Queen?” She nodded. “Then do as I say.”

Any further protest seemed to die on her tongue as he pushed her towards the maid. “I have a private bath. Draw it. Scrub her thoroughly. Make sure she washes in between her toes and her legs.”

Sansa sputtered indignantly once more. “Who do you think you are?” her short temper finally boiled over.

The man finally looked her square in the eye, his grey green pupils sparkling with amusement. “I am Lord Baelish, Lord of the Fingers, High Secretary of State, Keeper of the Keys, and the Queen’s favourite.”

~•~  
II  
LIKE  
ALL  
YOUNG  
LADIES  
~•~

“Eahhhhh!” Sansa shrieked as a bucket of ice cold water splashed over her head. The sponge was hard and abrasive and the soap as delicate and gentle as lye.

For a moment, a brief moment, as Lord Baelish’s maid had escorted her quickly through servant’s passages, Sansa had dreamt of a warm bath - surrounded by candles, and the scent of lavender and rose water, and soft cloths to scrub the mud and dirt away. But she should’ve known by now - no such luxuries in this world were given so easily.

Another bucket was thrown, and the rope of grey stinging soap held out to her. Sansa sat crouched in the bronze tub, hand clasped about her feminine bits to preserve some sort of modesty. They couldn’t even afford her a sheet to cover herself with. With shaking hands she applied the soap liberally to her underarms, and the brown flecks of mud along her neck and face. When she was done she held out the soap to the maid once more, but the woman didn’t take it. Sansa’s bottom lip quivered, confusion knitting her brow.

“Ahem,” the maid coughed, quirking her eyebrow. She motioned with a short nod of her head to Sansa’s abdomen. Sansa looked down - had she missed a spot? There was no mud on her stomach, or along her ribs, or...

Her head snapped up. “You can’t be serious!” She cried.

The maid shrugged, unhelpfully.

Sansa sneered, taking up the soap once more, and awkwardly shifting up on to her knees so that she could bring the harsh bar in between her legs.

“Unbelievable,” she spat under her breath, practically tossing the soap at the maid when she was done.

She screamed once more as another bucket of water was dumped over her head.

~•~

Sansa emerged, clean and dressed from Lord Baelish’s chambers.

Lord Baelish was out in the hall waiting for her. “Ah, you’re finally ready, I see.”

“The bath was cold.”

“Well these are trying times, sweetling,” he mocked her again. “At least you scrub up well.” He circled around her like an appraising vulture.

A spare servant’s dress was scrounged out of some cupboard or chest, as well as, rather disturbingly, a simple shift and petticoat in exactly her size. The dress was the favoured Tully blue that made up the Vale uniform, and lined with grey and red on the collar and ties. A new, clean bonnet disguised her full head of Tully red hair.

“Without the mud on your face one can almost see the noble blood in your veins, mmm yes,” the blunt nail of his forefinger gently ran up the base of her neck, causing her to flinch. All at once it felt like he was all around her, hand and claws, and ghostly breath behind her ear.

“Hey!” She hissed, jerking away from him and his unnerving touch.

Lord Baelish held up his hands in mock acquiescence. “I can take you to your Aunt now,” he artfully switched modes like a dancer shifts movements.

Nervously she wiped her neck with her hand and wiped it into the blue skirt of her dress. “Will you give her my letter?”

“Done and done,” his eyes sparkled, the mockingbird head of his cane dancing in the air to his expression.

“What? Did you think I just stood outside the door this whole time listening to you bathe?”

Sansa swallowed a cold lump in her throat.

Lord Baelish smiled again. A mocking smile - a false sort of twist of the lips. She could feel it. Somehow it didn’t show in his eyes.

“Come,” he tapped his cane sharply on the floor, surprising her.

The mass of black curls atop his head swayed as he turned gracefully around, again as though he were dancing, and began marching at a brisk pace up the gallery. Sansa had to lift up the front of her skirts in order to keep pace with him. He strode, the heels of his buckled shoes making firm clicks against the polished wood floor.

“Does this mean I can stay?” She asked.

“I never said that,” he turned sharply around a corner, narrowly missing a gaggle of ladies.

“But you gave me this uniform...” she was practically running after him now.

“Well we certainly weren’t going to rustle up one of the gowns from the Ladies for you, were we?”

“And yet it fits me perfectly.”

“A fortunate coincidence,” he turned down another corridor. “It’s not like you have outrageous proportions.”

Sansa huffed. “If Aunt Lysa acknowledges me...”

“That is for her to decide not me,” he pulled out his chain of keys and plucked a long gold one from the ring and unlocked a door.

“From what I can tell, you make plenty of the Queen’s decisions for her.”

Lord Baelish paused, turning to her. “And what makes you say that?” His eyes sparked once again, as though lit with a charge of gunpowder.

Sansa’s chest heaved in the tight bodice of the servant’s dress from the exertion of chasing after the nimble-footed Lord. “That game you were playing,” Sansa sucked in a breath. “When I came into your solar...it’s not a game, is it? It’s a strategy.”

Lord Baelish stepped closer, appraising her again, but this time not like live stock or a dubiously bred horse - this time he regarded her with the eye of one sizing up their opponent.

“Ooh she is a clever one,” he smiled, revealing the white tips of his prominent front teeth. A ringed hand pushed open the unlocked door, and another hand at her waist guided her through. Now, at a much more leisurely pace. “What do you think it is, sweetling?”

“Your game?”

His smile widened. “Precisely.”

Her brow knitted. He could be luring her into a trap. Using his magnetic charm to trick her into a false sense of security so he can draw out what she knows, and possibly have her quietly disappear if he decides she is a liability. Her smart mouth once again had put her in a perilous position.

Sansa fell back on her only defence. “Oh I don’t know,” she shrugged simply, giggling like an empty-headed waif. “My father never taught me about the wages of politics and war. I only know simple things, like embroidery, and watercolour. Like all young ladies.”

Lord Baelish’s grin did not move, though he schooled his true expression with that mocking veneer. Sansa could sense that he saw right through her hopeless charade, and also, that somehow, he liked it.

He led her down a dark gallery, lit by on the occasional sconce along the wall. At the end of corridor there was a single door, hidden amongst a plethora of hung tapestries, all fitted together like a mosaic.

“A few tips, sweetling, before you go in there,” he fished out another key. “Firstly, do not ogle at her appearance. Keep your eyes low and tell her that she seems of good health. But do not layer it on thick, she hates that. Secondly, you must appeal to her better nature. Your mother and her were rivals since they were girls, and there is still some bitterness there. But deeper than that there is a streak of familial duty that she cannot ignore. Make it about her. Oh you are too kind, my dear Aunt. So gracious. So understanding. And all that. Thirdly, and this is most important. Do not, I repeat, do not mention your cousin Sweetrobin. Don’t ask about him, don’t refer to him, don’t bring him up at all.”

Sansa’s brow furrowed once again. By all accounts she’d heard, Sweetrobin was the apple of Aunt Lysa’s eye. “What will happen if I do?”

He stared her dead in the eye. So sharp it made her blood run cold. “Unspeakable wrath, the likes of which you’ve never seen.”

Sansa swallowed. “What happened that she should loathe her beloved son so?”

Lord Baelish’s eyes softened, which only made the knot in her stomach feel more at unease. “It’s simple. He died.”

The click of the lock unlatching resounded with a loud clank through the empty corridor. Sansa jumped back from Lord Baelish and the door, her knee suddenly quivering with uncertainty.

“I shall go in first,” Petyr said lowly. “Butter her up a bit. Follow after me but remember, keep your eyes low.”

“Petyr!” A voice cried from within. “Petyr is that you?”

Lord Baelish’s expression dramatically shifted before Sansa’s eyes from cautious foreboding, to sudden camp airs. “It is, my love!” He cried, his voice losing it’s husky edge, and sliding effortlessly into the haughty voice of the court.

“Oooooh,” the voice squealed with what sounded like delight.

Lord Baelish gave her one lost pointed stare, and nodded his head to her before swinging the door wide open and waltzing into the Queen’s chambers as though her were being announced by fanfare. Sansa watched him give a deep, courteous bow, with all the pomp and grace one would expect from the Queen’s Favourite.

The Queen made a sound like a fat pig in mud would make. A high snortish shriek. Sansa did as Lord Baelish told and followed him into the room, keeping her gaze to the ground, but watching all his actions within her periphery.

He unceremoniously threw his mockingbird cane on to one of the Queen’s couches, as he made his way to the massive four poster bed that occupied the far end of the room, and within it it’s prized occupant.

Queen Lysa of Arryn sat in high honour in the centre of the bed, a mountain of furs surrounding her as she lay in a billowing white nightgown, her long faded red hair creating a coppery halo against the overstuffed feather pillows. Lord Baelish swiftly came to her side and elegantly draped himself over the right edge of the bed, his torso falling graciously into awaiting arms. She wrapped her arms around him as though he were a favoured toy.

“Ooh i was hoping you would visit me today,” she sighed, the romantic sounds of a young girl coming out the frail husk of a withering woman. “I have duly missed your company,” she gently placed him into the position she wanted him - his head upon her lap, her hand disappearing underneath the line of his wig and scratching her nails indulgently through his natural hair.

“I hate this wig. I hate it!” She tugged at it, bending over him to press honeysuckle kisses to his forehead and eyelids. “Take it off, I beg of you. Take it all off.” Her hand swept over his dark brocade coat, down the length of his chest to a gap in the two halves a fabric just wide enough so she could wriggle her fingers inside and tickle his belly.

He squirmed to her delight, and squealed like a child, digging her hand in further until it was nearly at the flies of his...

“In due time, my love, all in due time.” He sat up out of her reach and plucked her hand from his coat. Lord Baelish took a moment to compose himself, his wig back in place, his coat rebuttoned.

Lysa made a strange high-pitched sound of disappointment. “Ohhhh Petey!”

Once composed he turned back to her, once again the epitome of charm. “Not to worry, my love. Just one teeny tiny affair and I am yours to bully around as you please.” He took her hand and opened it’s palm, placing an open-mouthed kiss in its center.

Aunt Lysa looked displeased, pouting amidst the bedclothes like an insolent child.

“Fine, but be quick about it,” she spat. Aunt Lysa’s dementor shifted effortlessly, from giggling young maid to rigid ice queen.

“Sweetling?” Lord Baelish was at Sansa’s arm, as swift and as silent as a winter fox. He guided her closer to the grand four-poster, lightly kicking her at the ankle to remind her to curtsie. Sansa bit back her scowl and bowed.

“Your Majesty,” Lord Baelish began to say. “This is...”

“I know who this is.” She silenced him with a single gesture of her hand.

Lord Baelish bowed courteously and backed away from the bed. He made his perch at the large window overlooking the maze and the destitute orangery, and leant against the sill, quietly adjusting his frilled cuffs.

“You girl,” Lysa snapped her fingers at Sansa. “Take that bonnet off.“

Sansa looked uncertainly over at Lord Baelish. He gave an unhelpful little shrug.

“Don’t look at him, look at me!” Lysa smacked her hand against the wood of one of the posts. “Take. Off. Your. Bonnet.” She emphasized every word with deliberate smack.

Sansa removed the bonnet, and her clean, vibrant hair tumbled forth, the ends curling over the the tops of her breasts.

Lysa sat up as far as she could on the bed- the sternness in her eyes instantly melting into a look resembling tenderness. “Do you not think I wouldn’t recognize my own flesh?” She crept up on to her knees and moved towards the end of the bed, arms outstretched.

Hot tears stinged Sansa’s eyes as she was pulled into her Aunt motherly embrace. If she closed them around her she could almost pretend it was her own mother, if not for the angular bones and sickly sour smell.

“My poor, poor dear,” Aunt Lysa cooed, stroking her hair. “You are safe now. You are amongst family.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Sansa wiped at her eyes. “You have no idea what it took for me to get here.”

“Oh I imagine it was an arduous journey,” Lysa’s voice was honeyed, and maternal, much to Sansa’s surprise. “I remember the first time I was brought here. I was just a girl then, no older than you are. My father had married me off to a Prince, and I was taken here to live in his castle. Tell me, were you as amazed as I was at your first sight of the Vale.”

Sansa searched for the right words. She remembered Lord Baelish’s instructions: _Don’t_ _layer_ _it_ _on_ _too_ _thick_ , but then she added herself: _Don’t_ _be_ _too_ _honest_ _either_.

“Well...” she began.

“I know,” Aunt Lysa laughed conspiratorially, tugging Sansa closer to her by the arms. “What a shithole!” She laughed heartily and looked at Petyr who gave a small gesture of amusement. As if to say “good jest, your majesty!”

Sansa gave a small smile, to show that she enjoyed the Queen’s joke.

“But a castle’s a castle, and a kingdom’s a kingdom, and this one just happens to be mine, and all within it are under my protection.”

A wave of relief coursed through Sansa’s breast.

“Thank you,” she said earnestly. “Ever since my family fell, I have dreamt of the day when I would be back at court...”

Aunt Lysa’s bark of laughter cut her off. “Court! Ha! We can’t have you attend court!”

Just like that, the burst of hope faded back to cold indignity.

“I may have my own kingdom, but I still have to answer to the King of the Seven Realms. Or have you forgotten, my dear, that you are the daughter of a traitor?”

Sansa dropped her gaze; her cheeks burned. Of course, it could never be simple - she would continue to suffer for the actions of her parents, all because she was the one who survived.

“No, no,” Lysa continued, fingering one curl of Sansa’s hair. “We must...do something with that hair...and perhaps...” She pressed her brow together in deep thought. “Oh Petey!” She sang his name like a cooing hen. “What is the name given to Bastards in this region?”

Lord Baelish hopped off his perch on the windowsill and was at her side in a moment. “I believe it is Stone, my lady.”

Lysa made room for him next to her on the end of the bed and gestured for him to sit. Lord Baelish obliged.

“Hmmm. She is very pretty though,” Lysa scrutinized the red-headed girl from tip to toe. Sansa felt a familiar sense of dread - just as she thought her luck was about to turn. “The tower perhaps. It would keep her out of sight, and should anyone find her there, and figure out who she is, we can claim we were holding her for the Crown?”

Sansa’s eyes widened. A prison? No, she could not wither away in the dark, waiting for death. She would rather freeze out there in the cold.

Her large wide eyes implored Lord Baelish, if there was any mercy within at all. Help her. Help her. _Help me._

Cool, grey eyes regarded her, again his expression unreadable. Would the mockingbird stretch out it’s neck to sing for her once more. There was something there though, she could feel it. There had been something there, between them when they were alone in the corridor. _I understand you and you understand me. I can be useful to you._

Lord Baelish leaned into Lysa’s ear, ghosting a small kiss against it’s shell. “I think, my love, the dungeon would be counterproductive to our fortunes,” his voice was soft, and deep. “I believe there is a much better use of your beloved niece than as a prisoner.”

Lysa leered at him through narrow slits, her body regal and rigid. “And what is that?”

“How suspect it would be to have suddenly in your dungeons the last Stark Child, no matter how you spin it, it would seem as though you are protecting her.”

Sansa’s knees shook. _Don’t send me away. Don’t send me away._

“But no one will be looking for her in a maid’s uniform,” Lord Baelish kissed his Queen’s neck. “Just look at her now. She’ll fit in right among them. And it wont hurt her to do a day’s work. It’ll roughen her hands, and fade her skin.”

Lysa gave in a little to his touch. “But what about the hair?”

Lord Baelish stroked a hand over her leg, back and forth, teasing her with the tip of his nose.

“The maester has a dye i know of, for one of the Lord’s wigs. A simple concoction that will dull that recognizable shade into a lustreless brown.”

Lysa smiled at that, sinking into him further. With one foot she began running the stockinged toe up and down his calf.

Sansa kept her gaze low, not half believing her good fortune. She didn’t mind being a maid, anything was better than being a prisoner.

“Oh perhaps, perhaps...” Lysa sighed as he began to knead her thigh, lower and lower. “Perhaps that could work.”

“It’s brilliant, your majesty,” he breathed huskily, ghosting his lips against her jaw. “Hide her in plain sight. You are so clever, my love.”

She sighed like a maiden, her eyes drooping closed as she fully gave into his touches.

“But she still needs a name,” he continued, dipping his hand under the Queen’s hem. “We could give her my mother’s name.”

“That bitch,” Lysa hissed with a small giggle.

“Yes, that horrid, horrid bitch,” Lord Baelish teased, tickling her ribs with his other hand. “Alayne. Alayne Stone. That’s what we’ll call you.”

One grey eye peered at her. The expression in it, restrained, but somewhat sad. Sansa couldn’t help but stare at him. Here he was, practically feeling up her aunt in front of him, and he was looking at her...like that.

“I’ll have Kella look after her,” he returned his attentions back to the Queen, who was now gently writhing in his arms.

“Footman!” Lord Baelish hollered. A young man appeared from nowhere and bowed his head. “Take this lady down to Kella in the kitchens and tell her to await my instructions. Tell her we have hired on a new maid, Alayne Stone.”

The boy nodded and gently touched Sansa’s elbow to escort her out of the room. Sansa was still perplexed by the strange Lord - who was now technically her saviour - and the feeling stirred in her by his strange, strange looks. He gave her one last look in the corner of his eye, and nodded for her to leave.

Sense caught up with her quickly, and she made a quick curtsy. “I am very thankful, your Majesty.”

Lysa waved dismissively, fully engrossed in the arms and lips of her favourite.

As Sansa turned to leave, the sounds and sighs the two of them had been making increased; the sound of Lord Baelish’s wig hitting the floor, and the sound of Aunt Lysa falling amongst the bedclothes. By the time Sansa had made it nearly halfway down the gallery, the entire hall echoed with Lysa’s screams.

“OHHHH PE - OHHHH UHHHHH -OHHHHH YESSSS!!! AHHHH PETYYYRRRRRRRRRRRR!”

Sansa kept her head down and her feet moving - her heart thumped - and something deep and twisted and foreign to her began to form in her gut.

**Author's Note:**

> A little bit of an experiment, a lot of an idea that would JUST NOT LEAVE ME!
> 
> The story is mostly inspired by the recent film The Favourite, though it doesn’t follow the story of the film exactly, so hopefully if you are planning to see the film it wont spoil anything, and if have seen it you’ll see notes if inspiration mixed in with my own brand of weirdness.
> 
> I saw the film a few weeks ago and came home and thought, that happened...now what if Aidan Gillen was in it. And here you go, the fruits of my thought experimentation. A twisted, dirty, depraved little dumpster dive into my darkest whimsy. 
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Plus - Petyr in a wig! (Can’t be any worse than his wig in Peaky Blinders, or god forbid Charlie, eugh!


End file.
